


Oh Dear...

by spaghetti_garrote



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Suicide, no beta we die like children lured by a bunny man, william is a piece of shit as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29246595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaghetti_garrote/pseuds/spaghetti_garrote
Summary: “We can afford therapy if you need it.”  You tell a woman one time you have homicidal fantasies as a teenager and all of a sudden she’s concerned about your mental health for the rest of her life. Dammit, women, am I right?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Oh Dear...

**Author's Note:**

> i was going through old writing and wanted to clean one up. instead i wrote this.

William slammed his car door with a little more strength than usual before he stopped to lean with his arms on the roof. _Oh god. Oh god. Don’t spiral, don’t spiral._ The fuzziness hit his head again and he tumbled backwards into the grass of their lawn, thank god it’s night time or someone might have seen him. Loud desperate thoughts overwhelmed his mind as he recounted some facts to himself.

It was 1986, most of his children were dead, and he killed 5 more.

The damp grass scratched his neck, and the sound of bugs spurred the sudden urge to mow the lawn, and spray the whole thing with pesticide, all just to rid himself of the sensation. That would be counterproductive, a mowed lawn is even spikier, and pesticide stinks in a brand new unbearable way.

_Get it together you fool- give up give up and die!_

The first set of children, he spent such a long time preparing, and he had gone to all the effort of presenting them so artistically, and like that, they were taken away. Next time, he would need to preserve their bodies, he was too greedy to accept being able to give them up. It’s laughable that he would do it again. He must. He hasn’t an option, he’s condemned himself already.

He sat up and brushed the grass out of his suit and hair, carefully pulling each strand off the tacky dark magenta cotton. His eyes left his arm and drifted up to the street facing upstairs hallway window of his house. A dim gold light cast the shadow of a person onto the window and he knew who it was. She turned away and walked down the hallway the moment he looked up. With a sigh he stood up and fished the keys from his pocket to open the front door.

He pushed the door open and was met with silence and darkness. Sloppily, he pulled the laces from his shoes and stumbled forwards, slapping the light switch as he passed them, only stopping when he was at the edge of the living room.

The stillness of the living room was typical, it was the way he preferred it. Less chaotic and more comprehensible. Walking through he carefully returned order to the cushions and picked up the glass that was left on the glass coffee table in the centre. A red stain at the bottom of the glass and a fruity smell. _Expensive_.

The abnormality tonight was the television, still glowing, and in its faint pastel hues some crappy sitcom was playing, on nearly mute, but still playing. The laugh track was almost mocking him. Angrily, he switched the screen off. More importantly, he knew now that Michael had been watching television while he was out, and likely only left the set up when he saw the headlights of the car through the window. It’s against the rules for him to watch television on week nights, but of course Michael would defy him. How disappointing he wasn't even good enough a liar to switch the screen off, however the temperature of the beast would let him know either way there had been a breach of the rules.

It’s inevitable, the boy is troubled, or so he’s decided. That will be what the world sees of Michael Afton, a troubled boy, a burden to the family. Have pity on William Afton, for his only living child is a delinquent. He did his best, but he is beyond redemption.

He walked up the stairs quietly, listening intensely for the sound of footsteps or sheets being pulled or tussled.

There it is, the sound of blankets being pulled up painfully slowly. Michael was trying to hide it, but he was awake.

_I should take the lock off his door_ William thought when he touched the cold door knob. William pressed his face into the door, shaky hands holding the door frame to hold his body up. He wanted to berate him, but he felt too weak. It’s been a dizzy day. He’s only home late because he fell asleep at Freddy Fazbear’s. It’s entirely innocent, he’s a goddamn victim, he was tired. Only his dear Henry reminded him to go home, Henry is too good for him.

He listened for breathing through the door when he caught himself breathing heavily. He held his breath, and realised Michael was probably doing the same. He’s a clever boy.

He pushed open the door, but was greeted with a surprising stillness. He rushed over to the boy's bedside and pressed his hands into the sheets, only meeting a pillow and a plush toy under the blankets. The rustling he heard earlier, that must have been the curtains through the open window.

_He snuck out! The boy will regret this._

In the dark he looked around for any sign of his son, but his jacket, backpack, and skateboard were all gone.

Satisfied with his search, he pulled away and continued down the hall, reluctantly pushing his bedroom door open. It smells of Beatrice’s bath salts, she must have taken a bath earlier. 

“How’s the grass outside?” She was sitting on the edge of their bed, fuzzy bathrobe wrapped over her borderline lingerie pyjamas. She had been waiting for him, and if it weren’t for the threatening tone of her questions it might have even begun to look romantic.

“Why were you watching me.” William stated more than asked as he hung his jacket up hastily before darting to the bathroom. The sink was filled with hot water and steam rose out to fill the space above, the hot air nearly soothing. He splashed water on his face and in his hair before pressing a hot wet cloth into his face.

“You’re home late.” 

She was leaning over his shoulder, her hot breath on his neck _he wanted to choke her-_ he took a deep breath to calm himself but that wasn’t what he would get. Instead the smell of alcohol on her breath let him know he was in for a world of hell.

“I am.” he let out at last, pressing his face back into the steam.

“And you fainted, after getting out of the car which you parked like a- like a.”

Neither her tongue nor her mind were usually very sharp and especially not now. As she stumbled to try to insult him, he rang his towel and started brushing his hair. He needed to dye it soon, he was only 34 and he was going grey. Aging is despicable, and he hated the way it made his perfect skin wrinkle, his body and mind weaken, he wasn’t even that old but he felt ready to die of age already.

“I get it.” He cut her off. “I’m stressed, that’s all.”

“We can afford therapy if you need it.” Her pleading voice, he despised it. You tell a woman one time you have homicidal fantasies as a teenager and all of a sudden she’s concerned about your mental health for the rest of her life. If she was so worried she shouldn’t have married him, shouldn’t have turned his life upside-

“I told you already, I don’t need therapy.” William snapped at his wife.

“You told me what you were before-” God she knows how to anger him. She’ll never let it go, never let go of what he told her when he was a teenager. She shouldn’t have been so kind then and he shouldn’t have been so careless. Lies, lies, lies, that’s what he gets for trusting someone and opening up.

“They say children change people, and look how much I’ve changed!” He spread his arms dramatically.

“Two of our children are dead!” She raised her voice momentarily, and they stood in silence, his back turned to her. “I’m worried about you.”

“Bea...” He turned slowly to face her and held her chin gently in his hands. He grimaced when he smelled her, but knew just what to say. “With all due respect, quit drinking before you even begin suggesting I need help.”

Her embarrassed expression made him smile, he’s won this round. Who can humiliate the other the most is the game that keeps the two of them in check. It was very openly a performance. Neither pretended to be in love with the other in private, nor were they openly antagonistic to each other. Rather, they were in an agreement. He would let her live the American dream through his wallet, and she would help him maintain the appearance of a normal perfectly ordinary not homicidal heterosexual man. They met in drama class by the way.

“How much did you drink tonight? I found the glass in the living room, how much money did you burn tonight, drinking away your selfish paranoia.” His hold on her face was less gentle now as she tried to squirm away.

“Just a little while I waited for you…” She mumbled through pouty lips. 

He rolled his eyes. “Just a little bit?” he pressed

“I was scared…” She admitted.

“Scared? Of what? Me?” 

She stared at him silently with wide eyes.

“Darling, darling why are you afraid of me?” He leaned into her.

“When you come home late… I don’t know… I-” She fumbled away from him and he realised what she was going to say next.

“Have you been listening to Michael’s conspiracy theories?” He let her go and went to his coat to retrieve his latex gloves.

“You _did_ kill Charlotte Emily, didn’t you.” He could practically taste the fear in her voice.

“Darling, please. Our son is _mentally ill_ , you can’t listen to every word he says like that.” He had a kitchen knife in their bedroom for occasions just like this on purpose. He’s a careful, cautious man. It was tucked away where it would cause no one any troubles, and was already sterilized. He had already run this scenario through his mind numerous times, it was just another project that kept him up in the middle of the night. 

“No, no, no… Michael, I didn’t want to believe him, but he was right, wasn’t he? I’m taking him- we’re leaving.” Her voice trembled on the last note. 

William slid the blade into his back pocket and closed and locked their bedroom door.

“Beatrice, let’s talk this through, let’s come to a compromise.”

“No- no! I’ve been hesitant but, we have to divorce, I’m tired of our children dying to your nightmarish robots-”  
“Animatronics.” He snarled. How ironic isn’t it. That was the same reason Henry’s wife left him. The nightmarish animatronics that were their everything. Nobody understood Henry like he did in their common craft, and nobody could understand him, especially not Beatrice.

“I’m taking him, I won’t stand by while you endanger another, I won’t tell anyone about Charlotte just,” Her hands folded pleadingly and he wanted to laugh at her mockery.

“I didn’t kill Charlotte, Bea, you’re delusional, just like him. You’re drunk, go to bed.” He stopped close to her and nearly hugged her from behind. Their height difference was quite obvious now as he could easily rest his head on her shoulder.

“No, I’m drunk but I know- I know- shut up!”

“Do you even know where our son is right now? A runaway from home, you can't save him, he'll be an adult soon.”

“William let go of me!” She jerked her body about as he guided her to the bathroom.

“ _You never listened to me when I begged you to stop!_ ” He roared, shutting the door behind them. “For once let’s do something together.” 

In a clumsy and macabre waltz, he positioned the two of them right where he wanted. He wrapped around her, holding her firmly in place where she wouldn’t be able to escape. Forcefully, he wrapped her fingers around the handle of the knife, and he could hear her heart beating out of her chest. _Control, William. This is a careful operation._ He’d seen a few suicide scenes in pictures he acquired of dubious methods, and always had a secret desire to drive someone to it. It’s absolutely ecstasy driving to think he might one day still be able to drive someone to the point of despair, but the imitation of such will have to satisfy him for now.

“You’re drunk Bea, your two youngest children are dead. Your husband, worked to exhaustion, comes home one evening and finds your body…” He hummed, holding her left wrist tightly.

She started crying as he directed the blade to her wrist.

“Your body…Shush, don’t fight me and it will hurt less.”

“Stop! Stop!” She cried. 

“Thank god Michael's run away! Imagine if he heard his own mother die, how traumatic!” William threatened, dragging the blade across her skin. Like pomegranate, what a tempting and damning red he’d like to meet with his lips, the blood formed steadily on her wrist.

“Shh, I hear people bleed out rather quickly when the arteries are struck. Don’t worry, I’ll stay with you the whole while.” He let go of her and she crumpled to the ground, hands grabbing at the wound furiously to stop the bleeding. As soon as he backed away she fell back and hit her head on the bathtub, resounding thought making his heart leap a little.

Her wrist continued to drip and he checked himself for any sprays of blood. Not a drop, it was a flawless execution, and smiled at her proudly. The blow to the head was her own doing but only added to the realism of such a swift death. She was surely still alive, but it wouldn’t be long until she would be beyond resuscitation.

He removed his gloves, and put on a fresh pair, moving around a few objects in the room. The bottle of wine would make good company spilled next to her, blood mixing with the alcohol, a positively romantic scene. 

He looked down at her body, taking a moment to count his emotions.

Was he frightened? Only marginally. Satisfied? Hardly. It took a great deal of violence before he could really feel properly satiated these days. Pleased?

He dreamed about killing her for years. From the day she forced herself into his life with that first damned child, he wanted her dead. He’d have killed them all too, if only they weren’t his only salvation. How ironic now, that they would be dead. Only Michael, the bastard child, literally, remained. As much as he despised him, it was only there he would be able to find salvation.

_Focus dammit._ He's killed a person, it's only natural his mind wander. He climbed though his memories and tried to set his story straight. His alibi was sound, Henry saw him finally leave at 11, he was at the 24 hour convenience store at 12, nobody had reason to believe he had time to kill his own wife. It's not even 1 yet, a person can't kill another in less than an hour, right?

Then came the despair. He’s damned. He’s damned to hell and back and oh god he’s crying-

A wonderful time to make the phone call.

"What's your emergency?"

He stood in front of her body and felt her neck for a pulse. None.

"M-my wife- I just got home- and she's-" let's not be too hasty. He should be a disbelieving optimist. "She's bleeding? In the bathroom- I don't know what to do!"

"Sir calm down, is she awake?"

"She won't speak to me- I'm worried, she was drinking- and and-"

"Can you give us your address?"

The rest of the phone call went as planned, he feigned faint at the end, only before adding that his son is missing. The police would be on the way with a paramedic, and if Michael wasn't returned by morning they would send a team to find him.

William hung up and sat down on his bed, the rubber coil of the telephone still tangled in his fingers. He had to prepare for a night of interviewing, interrogation, and lying. How exhausting, the whole affair.

oh!

Both Henry and he are single now.

  
  
  



End file.
